


Shades of Fair and Dark

by AuroraCloud



Category: Mansfield Park - Jane Austen
Genre: F/F, Female Characters, Female Friendship, Female Relationships, Femslash, Femslash Exchange 2018, Kissing, Mentions of Edmund Bertram but no appearance by him, Music, Post-Canon, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-07-27 04:59:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16211918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraCloud/pseuds/AuroraCloud
Summary: Years later, Fanny Bertram (née Price) meets Mary Crawford again. Much has changed, and things go differently than Fanny would have expected.





	Shades of Fair and Dark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lastwingedthing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lastwingedthing/gifts).



> I hope this pleases you, dear recipient!
> 
> A warning in the case this story happens to be found by a reader particularly attached to canon ending and canon pairings: this fic takes the view that Fanny and Edmund's marriage is not necessarily going to be all that great in the long run, and that Edmund may prove to be less constant than his ideals are. The focus is not on their marriage, however, but mainly on Fanny's changing relationship with Mary Crawford years later.
> 
> Many thanks to [uneamesolitaire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uneamesolitaire/profile) for beta-reading and helpful comments! Any errors and flaws that may remain are my responsibility, naturally.

Although at twenty, Fanny Bertram (born Fanny Price) seemed to have everything she could hope for, at twenty-five she was altogether less happy. This is more common than one might believe, as this often is the period of transition from the stark judgement of youth to the more tempered and varied views of adulthood; from the unerring division of the dark and the light to the many-hued variance of human life. Such a transition was not easy for Fanny, who appreciated being easily able to divide life into clear categories of right and wrong.

What was giving her the most unhappiness was her marriage. She was learning that though Edmund Bertram was a man of strong judgement, his emotions were far less constant. In short, though Edmund was kind to Fanny, he had long since ceased to love her. He did not say it, but to a women of such sensitivity as Fanny, he did not have to; his manner was so changed that it was obvious to her, and the closeness they had enjoyed in youth had much diminished.

Perhaps it was understandable, Fanny reasoned. She had failed to give him children, and he must find that disappointing. Still, it hurt her to see him fall in love again and again, although he was far too respectable to ever act upon it; he would simply pine for some lovely lady for some months, and become more unhappy every year. She was glad that he still took his work seriously, and treated her with respect, as it would have been painful to lose her respect for him. Still, she felt sad about the state of their marriage, and wished she knew how to repair it.

She hoped for someone to discuss this; it was altogether impossible to ask the advice of his parents, and her own sister Susan lacked understanding of these matters. Fanny wondered if removing herself from the Parsonage for some time would help matters. She might gain clarity, and Edmund would perhaps come to appreciate her better after a suitably long separation.

Thus it was that Fanny Bertram found herself one winter on a prolonged visit to her cousin, Julia Yates, who had moved to town with her husband and their two children. Julia had learned a fair amount of the more unfortunate events of their past, and while they would never be closely matched in temperament, they were now much closer than before. Fanny hoped that Julia would be able to shed light on her brother's character and perhaps give her some small advice in on how to make him happy again.

However, the lessons she learned that winter took her down quite a different path, although, it could be argued, no less filled with human happiness.

****

The first days of the visit were spent in the usual way: sharing stories of each family and each house, of shared friends and acquaintances, and both cousins assuring each other that they were as happy as could be. But as they became more used to each other again, Fanny found it easier to trust Julia. After getting out of her sister's shadow and setting up a household of her own, Julia had become a fairly astute perceiver of people, and in commenting on Fanny's tidings from home, was able to pass several accurate judgements and descriptions of their family members.

Somehow, she derived from Fanny's words or her countenance that something was amiss in her marriage, and would not be content before Fanny had falteringly told all that she felt possible to say. 

"I must say, it hardly surprises me," Julia said when Fanny had finished. "Edmund is quite skillful at changing his feelings with the wind and giving himself excellent justifications for it. I am sure he tries to do his best, of course, but he has his weaknesses. Remember how infatuated he was with Mary Crawford, though anyone could have seen how unsuited they were to each other? I am sure he was well in love with you when he started out, but one can't expect him to feel that constantly. It's hardly your fault, Fanny."

"But I have not been capable of giving him children."

"It's hardly in your power to decide, is it? He can't be as unfair as to accuse you of that. Don't fret, Fanny," Julia said. "Of course you feel disappointed, but you two can still surely be good friends and respect each other's taste and judgement. That's really the most important part of running a household together. Mr Yates and I are hardly so in love as we were when we were younger, but we get by well enough."

Although Julia had never been one of those people whom Fanny leaned on for moral judgements, she had to admit her cousin may have a point. She and Edmund had enough similarities in temperament and taste that they would get along well, and it was true that this was the most important part of keeping a respectable household together. She could learn to be satisfied with her situation and remember how fortunate she was, in any case. Still, it made her uneasy to admit that the ideals of her youth might not hold up in the course of her life. All the more uneasy when Edmund had been the principal source of those ideals, but did not embody them as well as she had believed he would. If they had been mistaken about their own love and marriage, what other principles would Fanny be required to question?

****

A few days later, Julia took a careful look at Fanny's countenance. "You look as if you could use cheering up. Mrs Heath has a soirée this evening which we are invited to, and she always has such interesting people at her house. I'll take us to visit her."

Despite Fanny's protests that she would hardly be any happier for spending an evening with a large group of people she did not know, Mrs Heath's soirée was indeed to be their destination. Julia had her mind on going, whether or not she truly cared about Fanny's moods.

To Fanny's relief, the guest list comprised fewer people than she had feared, but nearly all of them were completely unfamiliar to her, so it was still vexing to her. However, it was nowhere near as vexing as the unexpected appearance of a familiar face from her past. She had not been in the house for long when the servant announced some local lady and with her, "Mrs Grant and her sister, Miss Crawford". 

For a moment Fanny sat stunned, trying to convince herself it was merely a coincidence of two people having the same name. When she was able to turn to the door, she received no such relief. After confirming that the older of the ladies was indeed Mrs Grant, the previous mistress of the Parsonage, Fanny found herself gazing into the dark, spirited eyes of her past rival and unreliable friend, Mary Crawford. Fanny felt her insides flame up like dry grass touched by wildfire. She was sure her face burned as well, and she longed to avert her eyes, but found that she could not. Miss Crawford looked back at her, seeming equally riveted.

****

The room was hardly big enough for Fanny to avoid Mary Crawford, especially considering she knew almost no other people in it. She had soon exhausted all other available means of conversation, and found Julia drawing her to meet Mrs Grant and her sister.

Mary Crawford was several years older than when Fanny had last met her; and, she discovered within moments, even more beautiful. Years had brought her features into greater definition, and her eyes sparkled with more than just the lightness and lack of seriousness Fanny remembered. She still carried herself like a proud creature, but when she took Fanny's hand and smiled, Miss Crawford was strangely subdued.

Julia had introduced Fanny as "once our cousin Fanny Price, now my sister, Mrs Edmund Bertram".

"So you married Mr Edmund Bertram," said Miss Crawford. "My congratulations, although I assume they are many years late."

"We married five years ago, Miss Crawford," Fanny said.

"Oh, happy Mr Bertram, that he should have secured such a wife as you!” Mary said with a sigh and a smile.

Fanny waited for a barb, a comment hidden in a turn of phrase, but none came. Mary Crawford simply looked all over Fanny, taking her in with a curious intensity. 

Mrs Grant asked all the expected questions about Mansfield, each family member, and the Parsonage. She seemed delighted that Fanny and Edmund were the current occupants of the Parsonage, but Fanny detected an air of disappointment that there weren't any children. Mary Crawford took an active role in the conversation again, but she didn't seem to want to venture onto the topic of Edmund or the rest of the family, and instead devoted herself to talking about Fanny's pastimes and interests. She seemed oddly gratified to learn that Fanny still enjoyed reading and walks in the grounds, and said: "Dear Mrs Bertram — for I must learn to call you that now, shan't I? — When I think of you, I can only picture you in the countryside. You were good to stay there, I have no doubt it suits you best." She smiled sadly, and added, with a quiet voice: "When you last knew me, I was the most reluctant to stay in the countryside, but my thoughts have changed. I grow weary of the city. The pleasures are the same from one year to the other."

"Perhaps, Mary," said her sister, "you would find the pleasures of the city more enchanting again, if you could bring yourself to accept one of the wealthy suitors who would still be happy to have your hand."

Fanny flinched at such a direct comment from Mrs Grant, but Miss Crawford laughed, though it was an odd, mirthless laugh. "Do you hear her, Mrs Bertram? Suitors would still be happy to have my hand. You can hear what she really means: you are past your freshest years, Mary, and unless you hurry, soon no suitors will want you."

Fanny felt exceedingly uncomfortable with this topic; it was hardly fit for conversation between people who had not seen each other for years, let alone for such complicated past histories as Fanny and Miss Crawford had. Fortunately Julia led the conversation to the entertainments available in the town, and everyone seemed relieved of a more neutral topic. It transpired that they had each seen a play, though different ones, and compared their experiences, careful not to touch upon any shared past involving theatre. Fanny was relieved that Miss Crawford seemed willing to let past stay in the past, and she had to admit that the lady had lively, interesting things to say about everything she had been doing, and was quite pleasant to listen to. Upon further discussion they found out that they were also each planning to go to the same concert the following night, so they would meet again there.

Fanny felt less pain upon this than she could have expected upon learning this. Perhaps she had grown over her dislike of Mary Crawford, now that Fanny herself had everything that ought to have made her happy, and Miss Crawford was more agreeable than in her younger years. 

"You used to play the harp, Miss Crawford," Julia said. "Do you still have it?"

"Oh, I do, and I play every day, though it's not heard by as many these days. Music is my favourite pastime, and I could spend hours at it," Miss Crawford said, and Fanny fancied there was some heartfelt sentiment behind her words. Although perhaps it was only her desire to believe well of everyone.

Before they parted company, Miss Crawford pressed upon Fanny's heart and looked her into the eye, and said, in an oddly private tone: "I am so glad that we've met again, my friend, and that we will meet again tomorrow."

Fanny dropped her gaze, feeling Miss Crawford's gaze too intense. "I am particularly glad that it will be with music, as you were always an excellent musician yourself and it will, I hope, be a pleasure for you.”’

After that, they did not speak much before it was time for Julia and Fanny to return home. But that night Fanny took a long time to fall asleep, and Mary Crawford's dark eyes sparkled at her long after the lady herself was no longer there.

****

They attended the concert the following afternoon as planned. There was a pianoforte, and a lady with a wondrously beautiful voice who sang songs of exquisite poetry. Julia seemed bored, but Fanny was able to shut out the society around her and immerse herself in the vast emotions of the music. She did wonder at one point how Miss Crawford felt about the concert, being a great talent in music herself. With an unexpected longing, she thought back to the sound of Miss Crawford's harp, so long ago. Even when the lady's presence had otherwise been painful to her, the music of her harp had still been full of wonder.

When Fanny saw her after the concert, Miss Crawford seemed permeated by an aura of unexpected sadness. Fanny could not help noticing it, and she spent a long while wondering if it would be appropriate to talk to Miss Crawford about it, or if she ought to appear unaware of it. Miss Crawford undid Fanny's dilemma by catching her eye and smiling a mirthless smile.

"Forgive me, as you see, the music rather effects my spirits. I confess that try as I might, I have never been able to suppress its effect on me."

"I think all the better of you for it," Fanny said gravely, and understood in surprise that this was, in fact, true.

"When you say that, I believe it," Miss Crawford said. 

Fanny digested her words, trying to decide if there was a hidden barb. "I never say things which I do not believe to be true, or likely to be true," she said.

"How often in social circles it is the complete opposite! Though you must believe a great deal of good which I am incapable of believing in, if you can say that."

"Perhaps I do," Fanny said. "And perhaps it's not a matter of what we believe, but the society that we find ourselves in. I do not find it difficult to say something good of each person that I daily associate with."

"Then say something good of me!" Miss Crawford said, and pressed her hand intently, capturing Fanny's eyes with hers. Fanny felt a queer shiver run through her, as she gazed into those eyes, dark but not as dark as she remembered them. There were nuances of colour in them, a fleeting flash of vulnerability which she wanted to keep and treasure. 

She felt embarrassed, and recovered her faculties of speech only after a time. "I am certain you do not lack good things said about yourself."

"That is true, but I do not trust the speaker of any of them."

Fanny spent a long time in thought before she said: "I find you somehow changed from how you were when I last knew you —”

"Thank goodness, that is compliment enough!" said Miss Crawford vehemently. "Please do not judge me only by that time."

"I don't know how much to say after we have met again only so recently. But I can say that you are an intelligent lady of good breeding and ease of conversation that livens up a party, and I recall you having an exceptional talent for music." She blushed to say this much, but felt obliged to continue: "And you are — oh — you are very beautiful, now even more so than before. And very charmingly dressed."

She kept her gaze down as she spoke, so she did not see the expression on Miss Crawford's face, but she felt the lady press her hand so tightly she felt compelled to look up. Miss Crawford's cheeks were flushed -- an unexpectedly becoming feature on her -- and she was smiling. "You are too kind," Miss Crawford said, and leaned forward. Fanny felt a curious trembling in her body. "For that matter, you are also even more beautiful than those days in Mansfield. Like a flower that was only beginning to bloom, and is now flourishing."

Fanny stepped back, feeling compelled to break this intimacy that was making her feel so queer. "It is not necessary to pay me compliments, Miss Crawford."

"But I was only speaking the truth," Miss Crawford said, her smile acquiring a sad, wistful tone as she let go of Fanny's hand. "You do not believe me, of course. I suppose that's fair. I was hardly presenting myself as someone to be believed, was I, in those days?"

Fanny was glad that Mrs Grant returned at that point and saved her from answering, as she could only have wholeheartedly agreed with Miss Crawford. The conversation was taking an all too serious, intimate a turn, and it was all Miss Crawford's doing. Why she wanted such things from Fanny, she could not begin to guess. 

But with the other ladies present, the conversation turned to more everyday matters, and Miss Crawford's harp was brought up again. Now Fanny had the pleasure of seeing her talk about it in a delighted, lively manner that warmed Fanny's heart despite her earlier prejudices. She felt sure that there had been some improvement in Miss Crawford and that her past shallowness had taught her good lessons.

Mrs Grant invited them to come to the house of the friend where they were staying. 

"We have an entire wing to ourselves, and you must come to hear Mary's harp again. She has been practicing so much, and you have enough taste to appreciate it."

So they met again in a few days, and Miss Crawford continued to be keen for Fanny's company. Even after they had enjoyed tea and harp music, Miss Crawford made sure she had most of Fanny's time. Curiously, she asked few questions about Edmund, or Tom, or any other person who Fanny could believe would prompt Miss Crawford to seek her acquaintance. Instead she seemed interested in Fanny herself, her thoughts, her feelings. 

When Fanny thus spoke at length with Miss Crawford, she found the lady changed from the last time they had been friends. Though still equipped with a sharp wit and a propensity for saying more than she ought, her manner had mellowed, and her unladylike speeches were just as likely to expose and ridicule weaknesses in her own self as in others. Though it was not the most proper way of speaking, there was a charm about it, and it showed that Miss Crawford saw herself differently than she had before. Fanny found that she could not fault the lady as much as she had before, and began, in fact, to see why Edmund could have been so fond of her. Fanny wondered if she had done injustice to Miss Crawford before, or if people simply were less clear-cut than she had once believed them to be. It seemed that just as Miss Crawford's eyes had more shades in their darkness than Fanny remembered, so her character was streaked with shades of light and dark more nuanced than she could have thought possible.

Indeed, if she had not had so many painful memories related to Miss Crawford, Fanny would have found herself liking her a great deal and wishing they could have their friendship back. She quietly reflected: _It is a pity that her friendship for me was only a front, for I should enjoy it now if she liked me for real._ Yet, what was in it for Miss Crawford now? Her brother's misbehaviour had not cost her so much social standing that a shy, reclusive reverend's wife from a Northamptonshire parsonage could improve her position. 

After heartfelt reflection upon her sewing one morning, Fanny had to come to the conclusion that Mary Crawford seemed to genuinely like her, regardless of any selfish benefit. And thus she felt less uneasy about accepting Mrs Grant's invitation to dine with them that night. If Miss Crawford sought Fanny's company for herself, if she truly wanted different company than her sophisticated town circles could provide, then perhaps Fanny could be of use to her. She was too modest to believe herself able to change people, but she was not above believing that Miss Crawford could want change that Fanny's circle could represent.

****

So began a series of visits, which Fanny, otherwise dutiful in her correspondence, neglected to mention to anyone in her family. If she had believed it was truly improper for her to meet Miss Crawford, she wouldn't have met her, she thought. But she did not wish to upset Edmund or invite further questions before she had ascertained the nature of Miss Crawford's character change.

They discussed more serious topics than Fanny would have believed possible. Miss Crawford soon called her Fanny rather than Mrs Bertram, and Fanny did not find it as uncomfortable as she previously had. Thus she was compelled to call her friend Mary, and she discovered she liked how the name felt on her tongue, and that this friendship had ceased to be unpleasant to her. Indeed, Mary's quick wit and animated conversation helped her forget her own worries. 

They gradually slid into genuine affection and intimacy that she would not have previously considered possible. Fanny was accustomed to seriousness, but Mary made her smile and laugh. She was accustomed to being in awe of everything, but Mary ridiculed the hypocrisies of the world and made them lighter to bear. Fanny was also accustomed to keeping her distance and hiding from the world behind an invisible screen, rarely inviting gentle touches. But Mary was incessantly tender, she would touch Fanny and beckon her into embraces, stroke her hair and kiss her cheek, and somehow, these touches ceased to be unpleasant to Fanny.

As their friendship progressed, Fanny found herself in unlikely positions such as laying half on Mary's lap, her head cradled on Mary's bosom while reading a book aloud. Mary would idly rearrange Fanny's hair, and Fanny felt odd tremors of pleasure from Mary's fingers caressing her sensitive scalp. Mary would kiss her for greeting and goodbye, and Fanny came to enjoy the velvety touch of Mary's lips on her cheek. She found herself paying particular attention to her dress and the arrangements of her hair on the days when she saw Mary, because she felt alight when Mary's eyes admired her with exceptional spark. 

Sometimes Fanny would reason with herself that it was inappropriate to allow herself to enjoy this as much as she did. But she was so rarely singled out by anyone for admiration or special friendship, and in Mary's company she found herself unwilling to resist. She wondered once if this was what had happened to Edmund all those years ago, but felt something so wrong in even considering this question that she banished it from her mind. 

But during those weeks, something else formed in her mind. An understanding that the stark, just morals that Edmund and his books had taught her may have been a helpful guide to a child, but in adulthood had to give way to a more nuanced view of the world. It seemed that people were not constant, and most people contained many facets that she could not see all at once. Miss Crawford had once been shallow and mercenary, but years later she had changed and Fanny could see the good in her. Edmund, who had been a stalwart bedrock of her childhood, had proved less solid than his sermons were. Julia, though by no means deep of thought, had much improved in understanding when coming to her own. 

It was possible that at twenty-five, Fanny Bertram still had much to learn about the world. Although this filled her with trepidation, as she liked things to be orderly and secure, there was a part of her soul which felt wonderment and relief at this discovery. She quietly resolved to never again believe that she already understood all the world and what is best for each person in each situation.

****

Fanny came to quite depend on the meetings with Mary, without realizing it. Everything seemed coloured by a strange sort of enchantment in those weeks.

One evening, she and Mary were together in Mary's sitting room, and Mary played the harp while Fanny sat by the window and gazed out. The last rays of the setting sun were colouring the sky in rose and crimson, and the gentle notes of Mary's harp seemed to drift calmly through the air. Fanny felt at peace.

At length, Mary stopped playing. Fanny felt a curious sensation, as though she herself were a harp string waiting to be plucked. She heard the rustle of fabric as Mary moved from her seat and came towards Fanny. The chaise on which Fanny was sitting was long enough to seat two, but Mary had never before sat next to her on it. Now she did, and her arm brushed Fanny's in a way that made her tingle underneath her clothes. Fanny turned to look at her friend.

Mary was looking at her with a soft gleam in her eyes, one that made Fanny shiver to the very core of her being. "Fanny," she said quietly. Her hands laid to rest on Fanny's shoulders.

"It was beautiful," Fanny said. "Your playing. I could feel the music being a part of this evening, as though it was playing the same melody as the clouds and the sky."

Mary smiled, a tender smile that was missing the wistfulness that had characterised her smiles of late. Her hands moved to cup Fanny's face. "Oh, Fanny," she murmured, all gentleness. Then she leaned across, and her lips brushed Fanny's cheek, softly like the wings of a butterfly. Fanny felt that string inside her being plucked, and she turned her head slightly. Mary's kiss now landed more firmly on the corner of Fanny's mouth. They stayed together, Fanny leaning into Mary's kiss, Mary wounding her arms around Fanny's waist.

Mary moved her head, and for a moment, Fanny felt the most perfect kiss of her life press fully on her mouth. Mary's lips — so soft, so full — moved against hers in exquisite sensation, and the whole of Fanny's being thrummed with unheard melody. She sighed into the kiss, softening her mouth to fully receive it.

Then there was a sound from another part of the house — only a servant opening and closing the pantry door, but it was enough to break the spell. Fanny withdrew hastily, feeling herself flushed and shaking all over. She felt a vague sense of having done something wrong, though she could not say what. Girls and women did kiss their friends from time to time, and she and Mary had not done anything they should not have. But she rose from her seat, muttering how Julia expected her home soon, and made to leave. 

On the threshold of the room, however, Mary seized her by the hand, and made her turn and look at her. There was a queer, intense look in her eyes, and her cheeks blazed, as though Mary, too, was conscious of that something strange which had passed between them. "Fanny," she said, pleading, even desperate. "This isn't wrong."

Fanny opened her mouth, then closed it, unsure of what she would have said. Finally she said: "I need to go, Mary." Her voice trembled as she spoke. But she did look Mary in the eye, and perhaps that emboldened Mary to lean to her and kiss her cheek again, sweet and lingering. And Fanny allowed it, breathing in her lovely scent, and she even smiled before departing. She didn’t dare to stop and wait for Mary’s smile in return.  
Fanny still felt the trace of the kiss caressing her cheek as she stepped out to walk in the cooling evening, and a new sort of joy rang out in her, unfamiliar yet exciting. She didn’t know what it all was, what she ought to think. Yet, watching Venus shine brightly in the pale red glow of the horizon, she dared to think that perhaps this, too, was something she would yet learn.


End file.
